


From the Ruins

by Fyre



Series: Inverse Omens [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley, Demon Aziraphale, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: In 1941, a church was bombed by the Nazis. In 1947, an angel decided to make it his home.Part of theInverse Omensuniverse featuring angel Crowley and demon Aziraphale.





	From the Ruins

**1947**

There were a lot of places in London that were being rebuilt. One grew used to the sound of it after a while, though Mary had to admit she’d always been a little saddened by the sight of her family’s old church still lying in ruins.

It had been a lovely place and her eldest sister had married there only a few weeks before an air raid had brought the roof and tower crashing down.

Day in, day out, she passed by on her way to her secretarial job in the city, sparing a forlorn glance at the shattered walls and the empty windows. The stained glass had glittered like a broken rainbow on the ground the night after the raid.

So, naturally, it came as quite the surprise when she was trotting by one morning and the gate in the fence was open and people were moving around in the grounds. Her heart sank, certain that the final demolition was about to happen.

Days went by and little by little, scaffolding spread over the sides of the building and – to her delight and astonishment – people appeared to be repairing the stonework. Rubble was carted away in wheelbarrows, overgrown weeds torn away, until the bare shell that remained was visible.

It was certainly none of her business, but she left the house a little early one morning to get a better look before the workmen arrived.

The gate was open, despite their absence, and she glanced about before hurrying in.

The scaffolding was still in place in the interior of the building, work clearly still under way, but the shape of the old building was there and she paused in the doorway, emotion welling up.

“Um… hello?”

Mary spun around with a little shriek of fright, clutching her handbag up in front of her.

A man was standing a few paces away. She’d seen him on the building site once or twice: a thin fellow in overalls with a mop of red hair that kept breaking free of the pomade he seemed to use to flatten it down.

“I beg your pardon!” She waved a trembling hand. “I only wanted to see. We– my family and I used to come here.”

“Ah!” The man’s face brightened, breaking into a dazzling smile. He had very kind eyes she thought. “I wondered what happened to the parishioners.” He brushed his hands together, dusting off some dust and held out a hand. “I’m… Anthony. Anthony Crowley. I’m in charge of the restoration work.”

She stared at him for a moment, then remembered her manners and shook his hand. “You’re in charge?” She flushed when he laughed. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to imply that you–”

“It’s all right,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t really look the part, do I?” He motioned for her to go in. “You can have a look around if you like.”

She glanced between it and him warily. It felt rather foolish to go into a deserted building site with a strange man, no matter how kind his eyes were.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if he could read her mind. He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the small chapter house at the far end of the building. “I need to go and work on the plans. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lost or something.”

Mary nodded with relief, waiting until he left before walking into the hollowed hall.

It was so empty, daylight slanting in through glassless windows, casting peculiar shadows on the stone floor. It was if it had been scraped clean, all remnants of pews and books and candles gone. Even the old stone lectern had vanished.

If they were restoring it, would they make it exactly as it had been, she wondered, or would it be something new. Certainly, it would be worth keeping an eye on.

As she hurried back to the gate, she glanced back to see the red-haired man sitting on an upturned urn in a patch of sunlight, poring over pieces of paper. He glanced up and gave her a glimpse of that brilliant smile and a wave.

It was very odd, she thought as she rushed on her way, that a simple smile could improve one’s day so much.

* * *

**1949**

It was turning into an utter disaster.

Of course, no one was the blame for the fire, but with such short notice, there were very few places that had both the room available and were within the budget for the association.

Tom scratched another address off his list.

It was idiocy to start so close to The City, but how better to get the corporate interest? No wealthy businessman was about to up sticks and head all the way to a hall in the East End, no matter how well it was reported in the press.

He sighed, tucking his notebook back in his pocket and folding up the paper bag with the rest of his sandwich. His appetite was entirely gone and there were still dozens of places to pop in and make inquiries.

East, it seemed, was the only option.

Tom made his way north from the river, checking his map, but somewhere along the line, he found himself facing a dead end.

“Typical,” he muttered, turning and trying to retrace his path and only ending up more turned about, until he found himself outside a gated courtyard.

A church lay beyond it or… no, perhaps not a church. Something built up on the ruined walls of one with a rather lovely copper roof curving in over the top of it. It gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. The spire was an odd patchwork of stone, where old met new. He almost laughed, in exhausted frustration. Divine guidance, dropping him right on the doorstep of a church.

Perhaps someone thought prayer was the answer.

Tom peered through it and saw someone painting the doors. He pushed the gate open, hurrying in.

“Excuse me.”

The man turned, a startled look on his face. “What?” He wasn’t as young as Tom had assumed, his hair a mess and a smudge of green paint on his nose.

“Sorry! Didn't mean to alarm you.” Tom gestured to the building. “Where did this spring from?”

The man looked up with a pleased smile. “We’re just putting the last touches on it now,” he said happily. “It took a bit longer than expected, but it turned out well.” He patted the curved doorframe. “We saved as much as we could of the original building too.”

Tom nodded, looking up at it. “It’s still a church, then?”

The man gave him a curious look. “Why do you ask? Is these something I can do to help?”

And though Tom had never seen the man before in his life, he found he couldn’t stop himself from spilling every little problem: the charity ball they had planned, the fire, the lack of funding and resources for a different venue with the event only days away, everyone looking to him for guidance and help and nowhere else being helpful or useful or–

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in the hall on a bench made of a plank balanced on paint cans, as the man – “call me Anthony” – pressed a cup of tea into his hands.

“What’s the charity for?” Anthony asked, sitting on an upturned barrel, a mug of coffee in his own hand.

“Raising funds for war orphans,” Tom replied with a shivering sigh. The tension had drained out of him, leaving him utterly limp with fatigue. “It wasn’t much, but we wanted to do something for the poor little blighters.”

Anthony nodded. “Well, if you give me a couple of days to get things in order, you can use this building if you want.”

Tom eyed him suspiciously. “Wouldn’t the owner be unhappy with you letting a random foundation in?”

Anthony grinned. “I’ll put in a good word,” he said. “He’s a decent kind of man.”

“We can’t pay much,” Tom said, frowning. “Our budget is… well, we’re hoping for support to raise more funds.” He sighed, shoulders sagging. “To be honest, it’ll be a miracle if we get anywhere with this.”

Anthony got up and came over. “Don’t worry,” he said, leaning down and squeezing Tom’s shoulder, with a smile that washed every one of Tom’s doubts and fears and worries away. “It’s going to be wonderful, I promise.”

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Tom echoed. “Yes, of course.”

Anthony’s dark eyes shone. “I need to get back to the decorating,” he said. “You take your time. Finish your tea. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of everything.”

Tom’s worries might have disappeared, but that didn’t mean his colleagues’ had. He assured them, promised them, re- and reassured them. Some of them insisted he was daft, that using an old renovated church was a risk, and yet, he _knew_ it would be fine.

The night of the ball, he was straightening his tie for the seventh time when a car horn blared outside the door.

“Are we expecting anyone, dear?” Mabel asked, gathering up her skirts to hurry by him.

“Only Martha and Jack,” he replied, frowning. His desk mate had offered to give them a lift to get to the hall before the guests arrived.

His wife opened the door and gave a small, startled gasp. “Tom!”

He hurried over to join her, his mouth falling open. A gleaming Bentley was waiting outside. The man leaning beside it gave him a broad grin. He was barely recognisable in an elegant dapper suit, his hair slicked back from his face.

“_Anthony_?”

“Thought you might want to get there early,” Anthony said. “Need a lift?”

Tom stared at him. He was still staring at the man as his wife shepherded him out of the house and into the fanciest car he had ever been anywhere near in his life. “Is this your employer’s car?”

Anthony glanced back at him. “Nah.” His eyes danced. “It belongs to the person who owns the venue.”

Well, that made sense.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mabel said softly, squeezing his hand. “Look how swanky we are!”

It certainly was a marvellous start to the evening, sweeping through the city like royalty, and as soon as they reached the former church, Tom stared around in astonishment. There were lights in the windows, casting a welcoming glow into the grounds and as soon as they walked in, he could see that Anthony’s promise had not been in vain.

The hall could have matched any grand ballroom in Mayfair. Beautiful drapes hung on the walls, sconces with dancing candles lining the curved sandstone pillars. In the days since his visit, candelabra had been fitted in the ceiling, hanging down beneath the polished curved beams of the roof. And at the far end, a small orchestra were warming up.

“Will it do?” Anthony asked, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“It’s _splendid_,” Tom said, awed. “How on earth did you manage to get it all ready so quickly?”

Anthony chuckled. “I’d say divine intervention, if you’d believe me.”

“You must thank the owner for me.”

Anthony met his eyes and smiled. “You just did.” He turned, heading towards the band, leaving Tom staring behind him.

“Wait!” Tom dashed after him. “You never said– This is _your_ building?”

Anthony looked amused. “Yes.”

“But I– we– you never said how much you wanted us to pay for it all or anything!”

The man stepped closer to him and took him gently by the shoulders. “That’s because I don’t want you to pay anything,” he said gently. “Now, go and take your wife’s coat and have a wonderful night, all right?”

Tom nodded, staring at him in shock. “Really?” he said in uncertain disbelief.

“Really.” Anthony clapped his shoulders. “I wanted a special occasion to open this place up again. You gave me one.” He firmly turned Tom back in the direction of his wife. “Go on. Give Mabel the night of her life. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

That, Tom decided, sounded wonderful.

* * *

**1956**

Deepesh clutched his burning ribs as he hobbled on.

He had lost the men who chased him, but it was only good luck that they had not noticed him hiding in the alleyway. They would realise that they had made a mistake soon and he would pay for making them look like fools.

His mouth tasted like iron and he had to blink hard to keep the blood out of his eyes.

It was not the first time and it would not be the last time. It was the price, his father said with sadness in his eyes, for living in such a city. It should not be so, Deepesh thought angrily. He wiped at his brow and limped along the street, seeking a hiding place.

A tower ahead gave him hope. A church. They were often open into the late hours.

Behind him, he heard the shouts. The ugly voices were chanting and angry now and he ran as fast as he could, every step making him wince with pain.

The gate of the church were open and there were lights in the window, but the door was closed.

Deepesh hammered on it. It would not stop them, he knew, finding him on the doorstep of a holy building. They didn’t care. They would do what they came to do if he–

A man opened the door. He was pale with messy red hair and stared at Deepesh. “What–” He must have heard their shouts because his expression turned dark. “Come in,” he said and took Deepesh’s arm gently. “You’ll be safe in here. I’ll go and deal with them.”

Deepesh grabbed at his wrist. “Lock the door. It is better,” he insisted. “They might hurt you.”

The man gave him an odd smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” He pushed Deepesh further into the building. “There’s tea and a first aid box. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before Deepesh could stop him, the man stepped out of the front door, pulling it closed behind him. Deepesh stared at it, hands pressed to his throbbing ribs and peered cautiously out of the window beside the door.

There were four of them now. Two had big sticks. One was shouting at the red-haired man, who stepped up close in front of him. One swung his stick and Deepesh shouted a warning, but the red-haired man did…

He did something. Not violent, but it must have been something. It was very hard to see. The glass was bubbled and swirled. Deepesh pressed his nose closer, staring out as three of the men turned and ran. They were screaming. The fourth man was kneeling at the red-haired man’s feet. The red-haired man left him there and came back into the building.

“You should be sitting down,” he said gently. He dropped a long stick into the umbrella stand beside the door and took Deepesh by the arm. Somehow, he managed to touch the only parts that were not bruised and aching. “Come on. Let’s get you patched up.”

“What did you do?” Deepesh asked, shaken.

The man smiled warmly. “I showed them the error of their ways, that’s all.” He helped Deepesh sit down on a chair. “Don’t worry. They won’t bother you – or anyone – again.”

Deepesh could not be sure why, but he had a feeling the red-haired man was right.

* * *

**1971**

Michelle was bored. Her mum and all the grown-ups were inside the hall, buying each other’s things off tables. No one had brought any toys this year. Not any good toys, anyway. Mum wanted to get one of Mrs Singh’s tops and she was going to fight Mandy Brown’s mum for it.

Outside, it was better.

It was sunny and warm and she sat on a bench, swinging her legs, until she noticed a man sitting in the flowers, pulling plants out of the dirt.

“What’re you doing?”

The man looked up at her. “I’m weeding the garden,” he said.

“Why?”

He held out the plant in his hand. “This the kind of plant that makes it very difficult for the flowers to grow,” he explained. “I’m making the garden better for the other plants.”

Michelle peered at it, then looked down into the dirt. “There’s another one!”

He laughed. “So it is!” He dug it out carefully with a small fork, dirt all over his fingers, and showed it to her. “You see how long and tangled the roots are? With some plants, if you don’t get all of the roots, they keep growing back, over and over again.”

“Can I try?” Michelle asked, squatting down beside the dirt and pointed. “There’s another one here.”

“You don’t mind getting dirty?”

Michelle made a face at him. People who didn’t like getting dirty were proper soft. “It’s only dirt.”

He laughed. “That’s right.” He held out his fork to her. “Be careful not to dig up the flowers beside it.”

It wasn’t easy. The roots were all wiggly and long and she yelped when one of them snapped off, tangled in more roots under the dirt. “It broke!”

“It’s fine,” the man said, leaning closer. He wiggled his fingers around in the dirt and pulled out some raggedy bits of root. “See? That’s all out now.”

She beamed at him. “Can I do more?”

He gave her a big, happy smile. “Of course.”

They were almost finished with all of the garden when her mum came to find her.

“Michelle! Have you been bothering Mr. Crowley?” Michelle ducked down. It was never good when mum went all puffed up like that like an angry pigeon.

Mr. Crowley got up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “She’s been helping me with the weeding, Mrs. Henderson,” he said and mum stopped being all puffed up. “She’s got a bit of a green finger, your little one.”

Michelle gave him a big grin. “Can I help again?”

Mr. Crowley looked down at her and smiled. “I’ll need to see about making the garden a bit bigger, won’t I?”

Michelle nodded. “And we can plant seeds and things!”

“Yeah,” Mr. Crowley said, all happy. “I’d like that.”

* * *

**1975**

“Oh my!”

“What is it, Nan?”

Mary glanced at her grandson. “I didn’t think it would still be open, that’s all, love.” She looked up at the building that had once been her family’s church. There was an engraved banner above the door, incised letters painted in gold: St. Dunstan East Community Centre.

Sammy gave the gate a poke and it swung open. “Do you want to have a look inside, Nan? For old time’s sake?”

Why not? Mary thought. The last time she’d seen it, the building was being rebuilt, then she had met Edward and they’d moved to Manchester and she’d forgotten all about it. A family wedding had brought her back to London and Sammy had brought her to her old neighbourhood and now…

Well, if she was to be honest, she had half-expected to find the building had been sold for flats or torn down and replaced with a dreadfully ugly high-rise that seemed so fashionable these days.

Instead, the building looked exactly as she remembered it, though someone had added a garden around it with vegetable and flower beds and even a small greenhouse. The bright green double doors of the building were wide open and the sound of music floated out.

Mary paused in the doorway at Sammy’s side.

The hall was full of children, some painting at one table, others working with glue and paper at another, while even more were up on the stage, clearly rehearsing a dance. It was all so lively and lovely that she caught her breath looking at it.

“Uncle Tony!” One of the painting girls stood up suddenly. “We need more blue paint!”

“Just a second!” There was a clatter from the stairwell beside the door and a lanky man hurried down, almost colliding with them. “Oh! Sorry! Scuse me!” He flashed a smile at them and Mary took a startled step back, staring at him as he ran by her.

The red hair, the gangly frame, _that_ smile…

“Nan? Are you all right?”

She nodded, stepping a little further into the hall. “Just a little startle, that’s all.”

The man – Tony, it seemed – was digging through a large cupboard beside the entrance from the vestibule. He emerged, victorious, and carried the large bottle of blue paint over to the artists.

“Ah! For the sea?”

The small girl who took the bottle nodded imperiously. “It’s the right colour.” One of her friends nudged her sharply and she went pink. “Thank you very much, uncle Tony.”

He ruffled her hair with a laugh. “It’s fine.” He hurried back to Mary and Sammy where they were standing in the door. He was still smiling and it creased familiar lines around his dark eyes. “Sorry about that. We’re in the middle of preparing for a show.”

“Yes,” Mary said, dazed. It couldn’t be her memory playing tricks, could it? The resemblance was so very uncanny. “I see that.”

“We were passing,” Sammy put in. “Nan used to come here when–”

“When it was a church,” Tony said, giving her a closer look. “Of course!” He beamed at her. “Had to come and see how it looked once it was finished?”

She eyed him. “You look _awfully_ like the man who was rebuilding it, you know.”

To her surprise, his cheeks blazed pink. “Er… yeah. Um. Family. Dad. Er… grandad. You know how it is.” He laughed awkwardly. “Inherited it, didn’t I?”

Mary narrowed her eyes doubtfully. It was true some people could bear an uncanny resemblance to their parents, but he looked almost _identical_.

“I’m surprised you kept it as a community centre,” Sammy said. “It’s a good piece of land.”

Tony looked around the hall with a small smile that was so very familiar. “I like that it’s useful. The people around here like having somewhere they can call their own.” He glanced back as someone at one of the craft tables called his name. “Look, I’ll have to take care of this. Feel free to have a look around.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, watching him dash off.

Sammy rocked on his feet beside her. “So, has it changed much, Nan?”

She gazed at Tony, as he held up a piece of paper for a couple of small children to cut. “Not at all.”

* * *

**1985**

The small kids were finally all cleared out and the good music was finally on. Tears for Fears was blasting through the speakers and the disco ball was spinning.

Belinda nudged her sister. “Fag?”

Dinah shook her head. “Nah. Outside, though, yeah? Mr. C doesn’t like it inside.”

Belinda made a face, but headed for the door, passing a zombie and a vampire having a snog in the hall. She made a face at the too. Easy costumes, those. Nick had just wrapped himself in a whole loo roll. His mum was going to go spare when she got home.

She was proud of her own one, proper Madonna with her hair all big and her make-up even bigger. It just meant she had to be more careful with her lighter when she lit her cigarette. She’s caught the end of her hair once and lost a clump before she managed to pat it out.

Outside, it was chilly and she swore under her breath at stupid Mr. C’s stupid no-smoking-inside rules and stamped her feet to keep warm.

“Excuse me.”

Belinda turned, raising her eyebrows at the big blond man standing there. He was dressed like something from Upstairs Downstairs, a big poofy scarf around his neck. “Whaddyou want?”

The man grinned at her. “Charming costume, my dear.” He glanced at the hall, then back at her. “Do you know if the owner is still inside?”

“Mr. C?” She shook her head. “He left when the little kids did.”

“Good.” The man walked passed her, heading towards the round building at the end of the garden. Everyone said Mr. C lived there, which seemed daft. It didn’t even have a bathroom or anything. It was just like a big round living room with a telly and a couch.

Belinda stamped on the spot, watching the blond man disappear around the corner of the building. He didn’t come back, not even by the time she finished her fag and she frowned. Mr. C didn’t have people around. Everyone knew that.

She glanced at the open doors, then ran along the side of the building the round one, tiptoeing up to one of the windows.

The blond man was in there all right, and he was lying on the couch like he owned it, his jacket flung over the back of it. “I think you were aiming a little high for your audience, my dear,” he said to Mr. C. “Did _any_ of them know what you were meant to be?”

Mr. C was still in his costume. Belinda didn’t know what it was, but it had a wrinkly collar, like the ones they put on cats to stop them licking their stitches and he was wearing tights and carrying a skull around with him.

“I forgot I was meant to wear one,” Mr. C said, taking off the ruffley collar and throwing it at the other man, who laughed and tucked it under his own chin. “I improvised.”

“You don’t _have_ to attend every year.”

Mr. C grinned. “I know. I like going.” He pulled a bottle of wine out from a shelf under one of the other windows. “I’m surprised you don’t.”

The blond man yawned. “I have plenty of parties to go to with other adults. These… small people don’t interest me.”

“Because you can’t keep up with them.” Mr C. sat down on the arm of the couch, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet on the seat. He twisted at the top of the bottle with his hand, opening it, and took a mouthful. “Anyway, s’my hall. I like to show face.”

The blond man sniggered, reaching up to snatch the bottle from him. “And showing off your well-turned calves, eh?”

“Your words,” Mr. C said, laughing like Belinda had never seen him laugh before. Yeah, he smiled all the time, but it was a kind of smile everyone got, but never laughing like that. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and stretched his arms. “Never going to miss doublet and hose.”

“Eh.” The blond handed the bottle back. “They have their moments.” He tilted his head in a funny way, licking at wine on his lips, then grinned and looked straight at the window Belinda was peeking through.

She yelped, scrambling back, and tripped over her own feet and a watering can and clattered straight over onto the gravel path, her hands scratched to Hell. She could feel the blood welling up, all hot and sticky.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” The door opened, a big slice of light spreading out from it. Mr. C stepped out onto the gravel and hurried over to help her back to her feet. “You all right, Belinda?”

She flushed, nodding. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“A little curiosity isn’t a bad thing.” He dusted off her hands, the stinging pain vanishing. “There. No harm done,” he said with a small smile. “Next time, stick to the main hall, all right? I’d hate to have to add more rules.”

Her cheeks got even hotter and she nodded, hurrying back towards the hall.

It was only when she got back into the light from the vestibule that she noticed she hadn’t scraped her hands at all. Must’ve been a trick of the fright, she thought, and went back into the hall just as Tina Turner came on.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my nonsense, come and find me on [tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/) :D The more the merrier :)


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